


White Noise

by Princess of Geeks (Princess)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: AU, First Time, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-05
Updated: 2011-08-05
Packaged: 2017-10-22 05:40:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess/pseuds/Princess%20of%20Geeks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sean Astin is dealing with the fallout from his divorce, and Lij is both the cause and the cure. An AU that takes place after filming of the movies. Written in 2003.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Noise

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for inspiration from nienor, singe, cimorene, serai, athena and childeproof.

Elijah almost didn’t hear the phone, he had the stereo up so loud. It was a Wednesday, nearly midnight. He was staying home a lot, trying not to waste his energy partying, because of his shooting schedule. The movie was all in L.A., for once. No travel. He heard the phone as a dissonant note among the electric guitars and straightened up from the book he was reading. He hit the remote to mute the speakers and scrabbled for the phone in the sudden, echoing silence.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Wood? Carl, at the front gate. The code today is `banshee.’”

Elijah believed him; he hadn’t bothered to take note when it changed at the first of the month.

“Yes?” He still found it awkward and almost embarrassingly adult, the rules and interactions that came with living in a gated community like this. But he’d had to do it. Though he still found it hard to believe, he was famous and his privacy would vanish without insulation.

“Sean Astin is coming to see you. I let him on through.”

“Thank you.”

He hit the button and tossed the phone on the coffee table, frowning. It was not like Sean to come over without calling first; and this late? He kept frowning until he saw the flash of headlights across the vertical blinds in the living room. He reached again for the stereo remote; switched to some less intrusive music that he knew Sean would like, and adjusted the volume. In a minute he heard the doorbell.

Sean just stood there when the door opened, looking tense and upset.

“Sean, come in, what is it?”

“It’s Christine. She -- she asked me to leave. She wants a divorce.”

“Oh my God. Sean. I’m so sorry.”

***

It was definitely a coffee with whisky, in the kitchen, kind of conversation. The lights under the cabinets were gentle, bouncing soft reflections off the granite countertops. Elijah kept listening as he got the coffee going, pulled down the mugs, found half a bottle of Bushmill’s in the cabinet. He went ahead and poured a shot into each mug, just in case, and Sean paused the cascade of words long enough to look down at the pale whisky, shrug, and toss it off.

He was quiet then for a minute, looking into the empty mug. Elijah could imagine the smooth burn etching its way along his gums, warm all the way down into Sean’s stomach. Neither of them was much for hard liquor, but it wasn’t every night Sean showed up on his doorstep, homeless.

Sean got up and started to pace. He ran his hand through his hair, the left hand, the one with the gold band. He always wore it, but tonight Elijah noticed it. Elijah knew he had had to have it resized at least twice; once when he became Samwise and gained all that weight, and once within the last year when he had finally shed it all.

“How long did you drive around?” Elijah asked quietly, crouched in the kitchen chair, a knee up under his chin, his bare foot on the edge of the seat, watching.

“I’m not sure; what time is it?”

“About midnight.”

“Well, the fight ended with me leaving before dark, anyway.”

You haven’t had anything to eat.” Elijah uncoiled himself from the chair and opened the fridge.

“Can I nuke some of this Chinese for you? Or, I have a pizza. You should eat something, Sean. You had no dinner.”

“Fuck that. I couldn’t eat right now.”

Sean kept pacing. “But thank you. How that sounded. Sorry.”

Elijah closed the refrigerator door and leaned back against it, the stainless steel cool against his fingertips and the heels of his hands, the Mexican tile cool under his bare feet. In a while he would feel something, he thought, sorrow or anger or guilt. Sean’s feet were satisfyingly heavy on the floor, his swirling, nervous presence filling the kitchen the way static fills a television screen when you hit the wrong channel. Sean was still dressed for work; dress slacks and shoes, a polo shirt, his good watch. He was down, finally, to the weight that made him feel handsome. He had had no idea what time it was.

Elijah watched his face, listened to Sean‘s tale, and realized the only thing he was feeling was a little thread of happiness. Then he immediately felt guilty.  
The coffee was ready. Elijah poured it over his whisky, and into Sean’s empty cup, then added another big slug of Bushmill’s to Sean’s. The coffee made Sean sit down again.

It made quite a long story, the blow by blow of Christine finally telling Sean to leave, the self-recrimination, the blame placed on too much work, the missed signals between husband and wife. Sean talked and talked and Elijah sat and sipped the burning coffee, holding his knee again. Sean paced the long, narrow kitchen, stopped in the far corner by the cooktop, and turned around.

“I’m gone too much. I’m working too hard. I’ve blown her off every time she tried to call me on it, for a solid year. She’s right about all of it. But goddammit, Elijah, you know I never... I always came home. I’m always there. I always tried.... I never....” Elijah watched as Sean’s face crumpled and the tears finally came, and still mostly numb, still watching himself respond, he crossed the kitchen in an orderly manner and pulled Sean’s hands away from his face and gathered him into his arms.

“Hey. Hey,” Elijah murmured, as all the pent up frustration and conflict of the last few years seemed fit to burst out of Sean at once. He hung on to Elijah’s shoulders and cried into his t-shirt and Elijah just held him. His sobs were loud and harsh. Elijah felt tears in his own eyes. _Tears,_ Elijah thought, his body apparently knowing something his still-cool mind could not grasp. Sean was so warm in his arms. His grip was strong on Elijah‘s shoulders.

Sean was saying, “Listen to me. This is incredibly not fair, to lay all this on you. I shouldn’t have come. I have to blow my nose.”

Sean squeezed Elijah’s arms, let go, and went toward the half bath. Elijah felt the edges of his numbness starting to melt under the tears, and he sat down and poured more whisky into his coffee and drank down about half of it. Very nice; perfect. Hot and sweet and reckless. He noticed a flaw in the stucco of the kitchen wall, close to the trim board by the door. His shoulder was wet where Sean’s tears had soaked through his shirt. He thought of cigarettes, realized he didn’t really want one.

 _This is your fault,_ the un-numb, un-happy, hysterical part of his mind was ranting when he started listening to it. _Your fault; what about Ally and Lizzy. Your fault._ He had never seen Sean weep like that. Never, not even when they got drunk once in New Zealand and the enormity of Sam and Frodo’s quest and staying in character too long and the unutterable sadness of the Grey Havens had gotten to them both.

 _This is my fault, our fault. My fault._ The coffee was roiling in his stomach. He pushed the cup aside.

Sean reappeared, red-eyed but calmer.

“I should go. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you through that.”

“No, no. You know I wouldn’t want you to be anywhere else right now.” Elijah reached for his mug again, not to drink from it, but to cup his hands around it tightly. “I‘m glad you came; not glad, but, you know. I am so sorry. You can stay. If you can. But whatever.” He peered at Sean. What did Sean need? That was the important thing.

Sean sat down heavily, all the nervous energy gone with the tears. He looked haggard and exhausted.

Elijah got up and went around behind him and rubbed his shoulders and the back of his neck. “I wish I could get you to eat something.”

Sean sighed. He gave up to Elijah’s touch, just sat there and took it, his head drooping.

“I should go.”

“I know. If that‘s what would be best.”

Sean’s hand came up and covered Elijah’s as it worked on his shoulder. When he felt Sean’s hand, Elijah closed his eyes.

“I think it would be better if I went to Mac’s,” Sean said, his hand tightening.

“Have you called him?”

“No.”

Elijah moved his thumb so that he could grip Sean’s hand in response, kept the massage going with the other hand.

After a minute, Sean said, “She never guessed what it was. At least she never said. And she said a lot of things tonight. But it was you, you know. I‘m not telling you this to make you crazy or to blame you for what happened. Because I did try my best. You, of all people, know that.” His voice broke again, rising through the sentence: “I never gave in, Elijah; I tried.”

Elijah’s hands tightened involuntarily. Was this how it got dragged into the daylight again, finally? In this messy, awful, painful way that was all about hurting so many people who didn’t deserve it, especially Sean’s daughters? Apparently yes. Because Elijah had tried, too. He had done his best and he had succeeded. Not one fucking inappropriate word or deed had he committed. In nearly five long years. Friend of the family, little brother -- Elijah Wood. He had succeeded, but it wasn’t enough for Sean and Christine. It had done them exactly no good at all. It was all turning out just as if he had given in to the desire and the yearning and pushed Sean into bed, as he had so often dreamed of doing, awake and asleep. That had never happened. But apparently it might as well have. Awful. Wanting something for so long and so badly, something that you can’t have without hurting people you love. And Sean....how much worse it was for Sean, facing Christine every day, every night.

Sean went on, “Since New Zealand, she knew the life had gone out of the marriage.” He drew a breath, his voice shaky again. “But she never guessed why.”

“I am so sorry,” Elijah said again. He had to say it. Perhaps Sean thought the words were empty, and perhaps they were. But he was sorry for something. Sorry for the pain the family would have, sorry for Christine, the innocent bystander. And the girls.... Elijah leaned down and laid his cheek on the top of Sean’s head, brushing gently against his hair, then easing the tiniest bit of the weight of his head onto Sean. Then he stood up, his hands still on Sean’s shoulders. _Tears again. What for now? Regret? Shame?_ It was such a mess. He cleared his throat, swiped at his cheek.

Sean had been sitting very still, so that when he lifted his hands with a jerk, it startled Elijah. Sean banged his elbow against the chair’s back in his suddenness. He lifted his elbows to each side, tugging his ring off. He slammed it on the table, then looked down at it. He stood up and turned around. Elijah took a step back, just watching.

 _This is my fault._

Sean stood there a moment, staring at him, breathing hard. He almost looked angry, if Elijah could put a word to the emotion on his face.

“I’m going to Mac’s,” he said, and he covered Elijah’s cheeks with his warm hands and kissed him on the mouth. Sean’s breath, and soft, damp warmth--enveloping, tasting, drinking. Elijah gasped, pulling in the taste of coffee and whisky, and his arms went around Sean. But Sean pulled away, tears in his eyes again. He made a fist, dropped it carefully onto Elijah’s shoulder once, twice, and he said, “I waited. I did. I had to wait. You know. Please.” And it made no sense, except to Elijah it made perfect sense.

The warmth of Sean, the imprint of his body, tingled on Elijah’s lips, on his palms. It was an effort of will to leave his hands hanging at his sides. But Sean had pulled away. It was too soon, too awful. It should not be like this. Sean’s face leaned close to his, his eyes so amber and so green all at once, and then he was gone. Elijah stood there, head down, holding on to the back of the kitchen chair, the coffee pot hissing at him. He heard the front door close. Sean’s wedding ring lay there on the kitchen table.

***

He sipped quite a bit of the whisky over ice, in an elegant cut crystal tumbler. Hannah had given him the set for a housewarming gift and it seemed wasteful to let them just sit there. He propped his head on the arm of the leather couch, looking through the archway at a point over the door through which Sean had exited. It got to be two o‘clock, four, close to morning, and he lay there, drunk but not sleepy, unfortunately for his eight o‘clock call. He stirred occasionally to meddle with the stereo. He had searched out a whole menu of blues music. He had quite a lot of it, as it turned out. Hours of Doyle Bramhall and Charlie Hayden and Stevie Vaughn and John Lee Hooker and B.B. King. It went with the whisky. Sean’s kiss was burning on his lips. It was the first time he had kissed Sean, unless you wanted to count how they had experimented in front of a crowd of people on the Grey Havens set, making Frodo’s farewell to Sam different from his farewell to Merry and Pippin. Because Tolkien had said Frodo had kissed them all. It had gotten to be a little silly among the four of them, and it felt more than a little reckless. Then they had done it for the camera, and not on the mouth, of course. It had felt very sad. But tonight was certainly Sean and Elijah’s first kiss as men, not as hobbits. And it wasn’t at all sad. Elijah was not sure he could name the emotion that blasted him as Sean’s mouth claimed his. But it definitely wasn’t grief.

This divorce -- and he was certain now of the inevitability of a divorce -- was his fault, although God knew they had resisted acting on what had come over them. Their bond had only deepened as their hobbit roles forced them closer. But there was nothing in Frodo and Sam that they weren’t already feeling. The roles didn’t change them. The roles were made for them. It was like the casting directors had tapped into their karma. It made you see the plausibility of reincarnation.

Sean had waited; Sean had never made an inappropriate move. Sean had tried to make his marriage work. But they both had known how they felt about each other ever since something impelled Elijah across that hotel lobby to wrap himself around Sean. He had not planned that; his body just did it. Elijah had not met Sean that day; he had recognized him. He saw the answering blaze of recognition in Sean’s eyes. If it hadn’t felt so comfortable, so inevitable, it would have been eerie.

Elijah had never let it get to the stage where it broke his heart. He simply refused to go there. They had the intense experience of _The Lord of the Rings_ to occupy them, and they were together constantly. It was a form of bliss, and yet they were so exhausted that often sex was the last thing on even Elijah’s 20-year-old mind. Also, he was a nice person, for Christ’s sake. Elijah did not particularly want to go down in history as the one who broke up the Astins’ marriage. He was not going to foment adultery. He couldn’t live with himself if he did, and Elijah had judged, without ever having to be told, that Sean wouldn’t ever do it anyway. He was not that kind of person--a man who would cheat on his wife. Even if the simple truth was that he had fallen harder for Elijah than either of them could have predicted was possible.

So they knew. They lived with their knowledge, and they became the very best of friends in that very close cast. They were actors; they sublimated. They poured it all into Frodo and Sam, and wowed the world and even their own unflappable professional of a director, through three intense movies and a boatload of Oscars. And they had never talked about it except once: The night before Sean left for L.A., at the very end of the principal shooting.

There was a big farewell party, and Sean’s flight was the next morning and Elijah’s was the day after that. Toward the end of the party they had walked outside so that Elijah could smoke, and for once Sean had stayed nearby. Usually he avoided Elijah’s cigarettes, and that meant Elijah had been smoking a lot less since he had been in New Zealand, because he preferred that Sean stick around.

Elijah had looked up from his lighter to catch a look in Sean’s eyes that, twisted just a bit more earnestly and a bit less self-consciously, he was used to seeing in Samwise’s eyes, when the cameras were rolling. But this wasn’t the pine forests of Ithilien, or the deadly pass above the Gorgoroth Plateau.

Elijah had had one fleeting thought that people had it all wrong about his own eyes. It was Sean’s eyes people should be swooning over. And he swooned, just a little, let himself float closer than he should, let Frodo’s yearning creep into his own eyes. They were both buzzed, not drunk exactly, but expansive and emotional. It had been a long shoot, a long wild ride. A different life. And it was ending.

Elijah had felt all along that the accolades for their acting were a bit unjustified. When they expressed the bond between Frodo and Sam, it wasn’t acting. It was this. And that night on that deck overlooking the southern ocean, his cigarette burning down, ignored, between his fingers, Elijah knew that whatever it was, an important part of it was being pitilessly aborted. It had been much worse than the Grey Havens, that night.

Sean had sighed, looking without flinching into Elijah’s eyes, and without preamble he had said, “I didn’t intend to fall in love with you.”

Elijah said, “I know.”

“And I shouldn’t even say anything because there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.”

“You’re married. That counts, right? I’m not stupid.”

“No, no. Not stupid at all. But, Lij... I just couldn’t face going home without ever standing here and saying it to you. Because it’s blown me up totally; you. The fact that you’re a man. You know. Everything.”

Elijah looked into Sean’s eyes, as sincere as Sam’s and as yearning, and deep and green and gold. He teetered, his heart pounding. What could he do now? This was fucked, he was fucked. It was like being a surgery patient, and watching the scalpel come closer, closer, knowing there would be no anesthetic, no blurring of the pain. There was something OK that he could do, though. He could hug Sean. They had permission to hug all the time, because of the crazy work, the pile of hobbits, and the warmth and the exuberance of the other Sean and Orli. So Elijah had dropped his cigarette on the deck and reached for him.

“I’m so sorry,” Sean had said into his hair, his arms crushing Elijah‘s ribcage. “And maybe it’s wrong to even bring it up, as this huge might-have-been. I don’t --”

“Sean. I love you, too,” Elijah had whispered, interrupting, and the scalpel had sunk into his heart.

And that had been all. They had hung on to each other for just a little while, silent and still, and then gone back inside. Saying it out loud did not make either of them feel better. And it did not give them any new information at all.

Sean had left the party alone, and Elijah had drunk so much that Dom and Billy had to take him home and then help him be sick. And he had been hung over all the next day -- hung over like permanent sunglasses and greasy hamburgers and about a gallon of Coke. He did not go to the airport to see Sean off. He let Orli and Viggo and Dom do it.

He and Sean had gone back to California and resumed their new friendship on their home turf and tried their very, very best. The saw a lot of each other and of Dom, and the other members of the Fellowship came and went. The reshoots and the premiers and the cons and the publicity tours for each successive movie were the milestones for Elijah. He imagined they were for Sean as well, although they were both very busy. They knew better than to turn down work while the iron was hot. Elijah could feel it in Sean, in his touch, in his voice, every time they were together. It wasn’t going away, for either of them.

The reshoots in particular were poignant, and the three times he got on the plane to come home from New Zealand, he would give in and think about Sean, just wallow in wishing, in daydreams of smooth skin and amber eyes, an endless succession of tragic cd’s playing in his headphones. He allowed himself to think about it while on the plane, but when each flight touched down at LAX, that was the signal to stop. He could have Sean as his friend, and that was at least something. So they had gone on like that. Until Christine had gotten tired of being married to someone who didn’t love her anymore and who was trying his best not to notice that. Work and causes and the industry and a fanatical commitment to fatherhood had become what Sean used to blot out what he wouldn’t, couldn’t tune into. Like the loud music that had blanked out the phone this evening, Elijah thought, Sean’s real life, his life without Elijah, had finally become so much white noise.

***

It was quite different, this new penchant of Sean’s for showing up unannounced. Elijah thought that it meant that Sean was thinking about him so much that it seemed ordinary to just appear without warning. It had happened five or six times in the month since Sean had left his ring at Elijah’s house and fled to his brother’s.

This time Sean was hanging around amid the crew when Elijah finished a day of shooting interiors for his movie. They had given the last scene of the day quite a working over, run into overtime. When they wrapped, Elijah had hugged the costars, thanked the crew, headed for the doors. Sean stepped over a coil of extension cords and into his path without saying a word, hands in his slacks pockets, his suit jacket shoved back, unbuttoned.

“Hey! How long have you been here?”

“I don’t know, a while. It’s nice, watching you work.”

Elijah smiled, hugged him, and got hugged back. It was a present-day picture, being shot entirely in the L.A. area, so there was no involved strip-down involving wigs or prosthetics. Just changing clothes, washing up, making sure the character clothes got packed away to Costume -- there was nothing special or otherworldly about them -- and he could go.

Sean hung at his elbow through pretty much the whole process, not saying much.

When they were outside in the flat, horizontal light, Sean said, “You want to leave your car here, and we can have dinner someplace?”

“Sounds good, and you know, they sent a car for me this morning. So that‘s one less thing.”

“Hey, Mr. Movie Star.”

Elijah watched Sean’s profile as they drove out in the Thunderbird, away from the studio, toward Santa Monica and the ocean.

He was sure something had happened today; it was the only pattern that had developed in this new, awkward phase they were in. Something would happen and Sean would show up. A confrontation with Christine, a lawyer appointment, a sad time with the girls, something. Elijah knew this time for the transition it was. He was being patient and observant and quiet. He could feel that his part in it was to wait. He took his cues from Sean. Sean seemed as restless as ever, but more unpredictable.

He watched Sean’s profile, resting his eyes on Sean’s lips, watching the wind whipping at him. He admired how the chocolate and subtle greens of his suit played up the bronze in his hair. Elijah mused that it seemed they were no closer to doing something about their feelings than they had been in the middle of shooting _Lord of the Rings,_ or when they had first come back to California from New Zealand.

 _When did I learn to be so patient?_ Something Sam the Gardener would have instinctively known.

Sean glanced over to see the ironic smile playing on Elijah’s lips.

“What?”

“I was just thinking about how Sam had to watch Frodo suffer and know there was so little he could do except be there.”

Sean smiled and kept driving.

They went to a small dark unpretentious seafood restaurant overlooking the ocean. It was early and hardly anyone was there. Sean watched the sauvignon blanc sparkle into the balloon glasses. The wine caught the rays of the sunset. Elijah watched his face. Elijah knew that Sean had been spending a lot of time at work and had been crashing at his brother’s. He had been trading time with Christine at their house so that he could spend entire blocks of days with the girls. He and Christine were still fighting but were trying already to talk about a way to restructure their fledgling production company. Apparently no one wanted to come up with any cash for a buyout. Maybe they could make something work.

Sean had hardly said anything since he had picked up Elijah from the studio. The waiter left and Sean raised his glass.

“To going to court,” he said.

“I guess I can drink to that,” Elijah said. “Will I burn in hell if I do?”

Sean smiled, but his smile had a funny twist. He looked down and Elijah knew he was gathering his courage for something, and Elijah’s heart began to beat faster.

Sean methodically moved aside the bread basket and the butter and some of the silverware so that he could slide his arm along the table and gently take Elijah’s hand from where it rested on the stem of the wineglass. He carefully pulled it towards him and threaded their fingers together, so that the heels of their hands were resting on the table, their palms pressed together. He looked down at Elijah’s hand the whole time. Elijah watched his face, and then when his fingers were folded between Sean’s, he had to close his eyes. He could feel Sean’s pulse beating between his fingers. His hand was so warm. It was such a strong connection. Sean’s eyes, his touch -- they could rock Elijah so easily.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever been this scared and this happy all at once,” Sean said. “I don’t know what to do.”

Elijah looked at him then. “I think you’ve been doing great. I know this has been really hard.”

“I’m trying to handle everything, but it’s overwhelming. I’m trying to make plans and settle things and all I can think about now is ... how much I want you.”

Elijah grinned, an answering desire leaping to life in him as Sean‘s voice dropped a bit on the last words, became rougher. “That’s not the scary part, is it?” Elijah asked, teasing.

“Well of course, it is! That’s all an unknown, too.”

“Let me help you, could I?” He wanted so much, too, just like Sean did. Wanted so many things all at once. It was like he knew the end of their story and the beginning, but the middle was a blur. Elijah knew he was allowed to say it now, wanted to say it. But he could see Sean’s hesitation. The words would be enormous. Shit, the touch of Sean’s hand was enormous enough.

Sean just looked at him, his expression almost pleading.

Elijah leaned a little toward him, tightened his grip on Sean‘s hand. “I love you. I have loved you since the day we met. It will be all right, somehow. It will.”

Sean didn’t move, but tears sprang into his eyes.

Elijah was suddenly afraid he had said too much. “Sorry. I’m imposing, am I? It can wait, you know it can.”

Sean looked down. “I am so fucked up,” he said distinctly. He took his hand away from Elijah’s and shifted, pulled some folded paper from his inside breast pocket, held it out. He cleared his throat. “I even made a list.”

Elijah took the paper, unfolded it. _A list?_

It was typed, steps to take for the divorce and the financial arrangements and the custody; a list of things to ask lawyers or accountants or to check on. It had dates, and part of it was arranged in a flow chart. But about halfway down the second page the questions shifted to things to ask Elijah -- the questions ran the gamut from pondering their feelings, to, in big letters, “the gay thing,” with subheads of more detailed questions, some about sex, and then more lists -- with dates! -- about where they would live, how they would work.

Elijah shook his head. What he was seeing was evidence of Sean’s blowup, as Sean had put it in New Zealand so long ago. Sean taking refuge in structure. Sean was trying his best to replan his life. Their life. But all at once, on paper.

Sean was looking at him, and the look said, Don’t laugh.

Sean said, “I’ve never ... plunged into something with less understanding of what I was getting into -- do you see? I generally think things through first, and act second.”

“But here we are,” Elijah said softly, folding up the paper and tapping it on the table, thinking what to say.

Sean went on, “Here we are, and it’s damn uncomfortable and not knowing what I’m doing makes me really, really scared and if I...” Sean had been gradually leaning forward, and he had to pause and look down and gather up his voice again to go on. “If I didn’t love you so much I couldn’t do anything.”

He straightened, as if saying it again after all this time had cleared something up for him. That unflinching look again. “I love you, Elijah.” Softly, amazed.

“And I love you.” Softer, confident.

The waiter, of course, chose that moment to appear with salad.

They sat there, and the waiter, since it was a good restaurant, refilled the water glasses and read the situation enough to know they had not even glanced at the menus and glided away without a word about entrees.

Sean and Elijah stared at each other.

Elijah said, “It’s a big list.”

“Too big. I know that.”

“Look. I know how much you love structure, but I think it’s a mistake to look too far ahead. Maybe we should take it easy, maybe you should just think about getting through this divorce and think about the girls --”

“But Elijah,” Sean hissed, “the part in there about you is the reason for the whole thing. I have to have something to look forward to. I have to.” He stopped. His face was turning red, his eyes were filling again. “And I don’t know enough to -- I don’t -- And I don‘t know how to --” he stopped. Elijah could see his jaw muscles clench.

“Sean. Baby.” Elijah had called him that so often in his daydreams, in his visions, it just slipped out, and he didn’t realize that it was another first. “Listen. I want you to go to the men’s room and splash some cold water on your face. It will be all right. It will.”

Sean tossed his napkin on the table and obeyed. Elijah watched him go, admiring how his suit jacket fell softly over his ass. He had been stunning as Sam and he was stunning now. Elijah realized that he had never seen the suit before, that it was stylish and expensive and new and that Sean had probably bought it for the occasion. He wanted to hug him.

He shoved Sean’s Comprehensive List of Things to Do With the Rest of My Life into his much-less-lovely jacket pocket and went to the girl at the waiter’s station, pulling out a credit card as he went.

“We’re going to go ahead and leave. Could you run this right now for me, please?”

It had been Elijah’s experience that he could use his blue eyes to good effect in situations like this -- he had been told enough times that they were irresistible -- and he tried to use this power only for good. She did not try to call his waiter or the maitre d‘. She swiped the card and he signed the slip, added a tip. Then he followed Sean into the men’s room.

Sean was leaning over the sink, his face dripping, his suit jacket carefully hung over one of the chairs. It was a restroom as comfortable and unpretentious as the restaurant itself, low light, a row of urinals, stalls, two chairs, art. Elijah met Sean’s eyes in the big mirror. Sean looked awful, still on the verge of tears. Elijah backed away, into one of the stalls.

“Sean, c’mere a second.”

He heard Sean turn. “What is it?”

He added Frodo’s accent. “Just come here, please; I need you.”

Irresistible? He hoped so. He heard paper towels rustle, Sean chuckle.

“What? Your zipper stuck?”

He was just standing there, waiting, and when Sean appeared in the door to the stall he pulled him in, reached around him and pulled the door to, and latched it. The space was quite small. To be comfortable standing, Elijah had to put his arms around Sean immediately.

“What are you doing?” Sean was not resisting but he was alarmed.

Elijah started kissing him, small, friendly, warm kisses.

“Elijah, no...wait... This is...” It was hard for Sean to resist, impossible for him to escape, and awfully distracting to kiss Elijah and talk to him at the same time, all of which Elijah was counting on.

Sean tried to insist. “Not like this, not like this. Wait.”

Elijah lengthened the kiss he happened to be in the middle of, ran his hand up across Sean’s ear and into his hair, making him sway and lean his shoulder against the partition. Elijah’s mouth swallowed his gasp. Elijah’s tongue was in his mouth.

“It shouldn’t be like this -- not in the fucking men’s room. No.”

Elijah kissed him again, relented, leaned back a bit without removing his arms, and whispered, “Sean. Sean. Lower the stakes for yourself, for God’s sake. Don’t you see? You can’t spoil it. You can’t stop it. You can’t plan it. Now shut up and kiss me.”

Sean did.

He started laughing then and Elijah thought he himself would die of relief and arousal.

“In the fucking men’s room. Someone will come in.” But Sean was still laughing and kissing him at the same time. Laugh-shaped kisses between breathy sentences.

“Why do you think I shut us in the stall?”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Yes, it is.”

“But I wanted it to be...”

“Shhh. No point in wanting anything, baby. It’s all ... right ... here ... already. Right in your hands.”

“Elijah.”

“Shh. Just hold me a minute. Like that. That‘s it.” They were pressed together as tightly as could be; cheek, chest, stomach, hip, thigh. Elijah closed his eyes and listened to Sean breathing.

Sean said, low and relaxed, “Can we go now?”

“Yes. And I paid.”

One arm tight around Sean, Elijah reached between them into Sean’s pants pocket and filched his car keys, pulling another gasp out of Sean as his fingers brushed his erection. Another first. But Elijah didn’t pause to enjoy it. He extricated them from the stall. They were still alone in the men’s room.

When they got to the parking lot, Sean did not protest when Elijah unlocked the passenger door for him and held it open. Elijah got in the driver’s seat, turned the key, and searched the dash until he found the controls for the convertible top. Sean was leaning back, his eyes closed. Elijah took his hand as he headed for his house, and held it tight.

After a while Sean, his head still back on the seat, said, “How come you’re handling this so much better than me?”

“Because I am not the one getting the divorce, you idiot. Or separating from my children or getting personal with the gay thing, as you so poetically put it, at thirty-five instead of, what, seventeen? And trying to make a living all at the same time.”

“Isn’t it more of a bi thing, come to think of it?”

“Whatever.”

“Or a hobbit thing.” Sean was muttering now, and seemed to be getting over it, and Elijah was very relieved. _Poor guy. His brain was trying to explode._

When Elijah pulled into his driveway, he left the Thunderbird running and got out.

“Pull it into the garage, OK?”

Sean was apparently done thinking. He slid across the seat and waited, no questions, until Elijah could let himself in the front door and trip the garage door for him.

Elijah was standing in the den when Sean emerged from the kitchen, and he opened his arms and Sean came into them, putting his face into Elijah’s neck, under his ear.

“Thanks,” Sean said. Elijah knew for what. For calming him down.

Sean raised his face and, without opening his eyes, kissed Elijah some more, a long, rambling kiss. Just lips and tongues and the tight embrace -- no exploring hands, no moving hips, no moving on. Sean kissed him, much braver and calmer now that it wasn’t the REAL FIRST TIME any more. After a while, they pulled apart. They looked at each other and Elijah smiled. He took Sean’s hand and led him to the couch, sat beside him and bent down and tugged off Sean’s loafers.

“Lie down,” Elijah said. And Sean did.

Elijah scooted back and put Sean’s feet in his lap and began working over the soles, dragging his knuckles against the arches, mostly using his thumbs, pressing and squeezing and hitting all the right pressure points. Sean sighed.

Elijah did that for a while and then began to talk thoughtfully about sexual orientation, and how he saw the whole gay versus bi thing, and then he asked, “Am I the first man you ever admitted to yourself you were interested in?”

When Sean didn’t answer, Elijah realized he had fallen asleep.

Elijah smiled at him, feeling somehow “off,” like he had just heard a director shout “And, cut!” He sat there, enjoying the feel of Sean’s feet heavy in his lap, letting his memory play over his new knowledge of Sean’s mouth -- firm, warm lips, the contrast between the symmetrical, thinner upper one and the rounder lower. Tongue, all muscle. Warm. Moist. He smiled wider, caught his own lower lip in his teeth as he watched Sean‘s sleeping, relaxed lips. Warm skin of his cheeks, smoother than you would think at the end of the workday. He must have gone home and changed into that suit and shaved before he came to the studio. Well, the suit was rumpled now, its subtle greens and chocolate browns a wrinkled mess, and the silk shirt, too. God, Sean was handsome. Elijah didn’t think he would ever get tired of staring at him. He looked for a while at the reddish brown of Sean’s eyebrows, which thinned and lightened and vanished into the smooth plane of his temple. He had beautiful ears. He thought of how Sean’s shoulder muscles felt, moving under his hands. And Elijah thought about his own genius-level talent for napping. He peeled off his running shoes with his toes.

The couch was big and wide and Elijah was slender and he slowly and carefully insinuated himself between the back of the couch and Sean. He turned on his side, moved Sean’s arm a bit so that he could lie close against his ribs, wrapping one leg across Sean’s crotch, snuggling his head against Sean’s shoulder. Sean smelled like rayon and leather and air conditioning and fading anti-perspirant and the tiniest whiff of what Elijah figured must be some kind of hair product.

Elijah was smiling so widely that his cheeks were starting to hurt. He found Sean’s hand, gently linked their fingers again, and reached for the comforting darkness behind his eyes.

***

It was exactly 90 minutes later than Sean stirred, waking Elijah instantly. They had not moved at all. Elijah could drop out of sleep to consciousness more quickly than should be humanly possible. Sean stirred and Elijah stayed relaxed against him, loving the feeling of Sean becoming aware of how Elijah was cuddling him. Sean’s arm tightened around him and he brought Elijah’s hand up to his mouth and kissed it.

“Mmm,” Sean said.

“You must have been wiped out,” Elijah said.

“I haven’t been sleeping much. You really have to teach me how to nap.”

“Nothing to it,” Elijah murmured, enjoying how Sean’s voice rumbled through his chest up into his shoulder and from there into Elijah’s cheek. Elijah slithered over on top of him, keeping his weight on his knees and off Sean’s stomach. He leaned down for a long, languid kiss, and then, his lips against Sean’s, said, “Beer. Pizza.”

Sean chuckled against his mouth and Elijah slid off the couch and went into the kitchen. He put two frozen pizzas into the oven, and when he turned with an icy six pack and slid it onto the kitchen table, he saw that Sean had shed his socks and his crumpled jacket and was sitting at the table, watching him. Elijah admired how the silk t-shirt, so dark a green that it was almost black, stretched across Sean’s shoulders. He opened a Foster’s for each of them and curled into Sean’s lap.

Elijah said, “We’ll have to try that restaurant again sometime.”

“I am an idiot.”

“To idiots.” Elijah clinked their bottles. They drank. “I want you to come back, sometime soon, when you can stay all night and no one will wonder what became of you, and when I don’t have an eight o’clock call. But I don’t want you to think too much about what might happen. I just want us to do whatever we want, just us. No lists.”

For answer, Sean rubbed his forehead against Elijah’s chest.

Elijah started talking about his movie and drew Sean into the set gossip and some character analysis and when the pizza was ready he pulled it out of the oven. Then he climbed back into Sean’s lap and they demolished most of both pizzas. They didn’t drink all the beer.

Elijah grasped Sean’s arms as they were standing in the garage, the big door rumbling open to the soft night. Elijah’s BMW gleamed next to Sean’s convertible. There was plenty of room to stand between the cars.

“Can I give you some advice?” Elijah asked.

“Sure. I probably need it.”

“There was a reason I had you pull the car in. I don’t like sneaking around and you know we don’t need to, really, but I want to think about being careful. Think how mad Christine is now. If she truly thought you had left her for me, would that make her even more mad? Mad enough to screw up the custody? Mad enough to take down your company?”

Sean looked at him.

“Just think about it. One step at a time.”

Sean’s eyes closed, and he slumped just a bit, his whole body saying “overload.”

Elijah hugged him, “Baby. Baby. We’ll get through this. We’re still together.”

Sean hugged him back. “I can’t believe you; you are amazing.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I love you so much. This is so hard.”

“And another thing.” Elijah was aware with total clarity of Sean’s arms around him, Sean’s breath moving in and out. He watched a spot on the garage wall as he spoke. Sean held him, listening. “I think, all the time, every day and every night, about holding you, making love to you, living with you. You know that. And I know you; you are going to need to be able to live with yourself about this. You are going to feel bad enough about Ally and Lizzy as it is. I am pretty sure that you are going to need to feel divorced before you sleep with me. I don’t know exactly what that is going to mean to you. But I know you have to get there and I don’t know if you are there yet. You left your ring here, so maybe you are, but maybe not.”

Sean didn’t answer that in words, just kissed Elijah again. They held each other, smelling gasoline and pool chemicals and cooling asphalt, and Sean got into his car and drove away. Elijah stood inside the garage and watched until he turned the corner.

***

The next weeks were a blur. Somehow getting through the First Date, With Ridiculous Men’s Room Kissing (check it off the list), had broken a logjam for Sean. He leased an apartment not too far from his office. He paid extra for two parking spaces and bought a Saturn station wagon. He checked in with Elijah at odd hours, sometimes on the phone, sometimes in the flesh. He was buying furniture, moving, interviewing nannies, negotiating with divorce lawyers, with contract lawyers for the company, separately negotiating for joint custody, talking with new CPAs, meeting with investors, meeting with writers, spending as much time with the girls as he could, and in the middle of it all he was offered a satisfying role under an A-list director. Thank God, he told Elijah, the movie was not due to start shooting until the following spring and might still end up in turnaround. But it was flattering.

Elijah wrapped his own movie and visited his mom and tried not to think. He almost let Billy talk him into coming to Scotland for a month but he really didn’t want to go. He wanted to stay in L.A. in case Sean felt divorced.

***

Sometimes he thought this waiting, this in between, was going to drive him crazy. When he had believed that Sean would stay with Christine forever, there was nothing to do and nothing to hope for. There was just work and getting on with it and the bittersweet, ever-present, aching knowledge. Sometimes, before the Astins separated, Elijah tried to pretend he was an old soul, that he and Sean must have been lovers somewhere, somehow, and the universe had hiccupped and let them remember it by mistake even though it could only torment them now.

But hope gifted him with way too much to think about. He did not feel like an old soul at all. He felt very young and very frustrated. Desire for Sean would sometimes overwhelm him. He would jerk off, smoke too much, talk on the phone compulsively, go dancing. All kinds of things. He wished the last movie hadn‘t wrapped just yet. He enrolled in a scuba class, dropped out. He thought about volunteer work but couldn’t commit to any one thing. Often he, and sometimes he and Dom, tagged along when Sean went somewhere with his daughters, or hung out as a family at Sean’s new apartment. Sean was learning to cook.

He and Sean were still best friends, as far as anyone knew. They were just outwardly going on with the careful closeness they had achieved when they came back from New Zealand. Elijah remembered how he had looked forward to each set of pickups, because it meant easing up a bit on the careful restraint and returning to the hobbits. Not that Frodo and Sam were lovers by any stretch of the imagination, but their feelings could bubble much closer to the surface. By the time they shot the pickups for _The Return of the King,_ everyone had grappled with the subtexts and a consensus had emerged, summarized most eloquently by Ian, that Frodo and Sam had achieved a kind of holy love that few humans ever knew. They had done the Mount Doom scene back in 2000, but over the course of the four years, Peter and Fran and Philippa had decided to rewrite it and intensify it, because they had concluded that Elijah and Sean could pull off whatever was thrown at them.

Their new script had no explicit words of love, no more than had Tolkien’s book. Frodo and Sam were facing death side by side, and their lines spoke of sacrifice and redemption and despair that somehow cannot conquer hope. But of course it was all about love. That luminous, hallucinatory day in the early summer of 2003, they had both broken through -- through resignation, through denial, through their careful outward distance from each other, and finally, right through the permeable wall between character and actor. They used Philippa’s words and played their love scene. Word spread about how they were nailing it, and everyone who was working on the mountain that day crept over to watch.

Elijah remembered sitting there on the sharp lava, simply breathing, after the tenth or eleventh take, suspended, in the moment, and the moment for him had become eternal. He remembered watching Peter cry and try to give orders. And then they did it all again, and again. As many times as anyone felt they should. As far as he was concerned, he and Sean were utterly alone, making love with their clothes on, under some bright lights, high above the New Zealand plains, caressed by the wind from the ocean, shameless and brave. When you’re facing death, who cares? He recalled that it seemed important, over how many hours and takes it had turned out to be, that he either look into Sean’s eyes or maintain some kind of physical contact. That was all he needed to stay wherever it was that his soul had gone with Sean’s. Between takes they stayed close, leaning their knees together or holding hands. Crew had run to them, bringing water, touching up the grubby, grisly Mordor makeup where their real tears had washed it off, whispering, trying to help preserve the moment. Everyone could see it, and the world had seen it, but it was Frodo and Sam. Wasn’t it?

Elijah hadn’t even needed to talk it over with Sean afterward. They had been outside time together, outside the rules. Elijah got on the plane after the final wrap feeling like a Buddhist who had achieved enlightenment.

Later that summer, Sean had told reporter after reporter how it was, with words like “sacramental, having Elijah Wood in my arms” and “peak experience” and “pinnacle of my career so far.” It was right out in the open. Because it was all about Sam and Frodo and the work.

Elijah wished he could regain some of that transcendent peace right about now. The best he could do was gasp Sean’s name and come and then gratefully sleep, night after night.

***

It was about a dozen people, but they made a Greek-wedding-reception-sized roar in Elijah‘s den and living room. By some combination of auspicious omens, lamb entrails, planetary alignment and plain old coincidence, nearly the entire Fellowship was in Los Angeles at the same time. The only ones missing were Sean Bean and Billy.

Viggo’s gallery opening and his son’s school break had coincided with the end of Ian’s one-man show’s West Coast tour. Orlando’s premiere was the following week, and he had been able to get away from England a bit early. Liv and her husband were there because his band was touring the West Coast, too, and Orli had called them, even though she was not strictly a member of the Fellowship, because he said it had been too long since Liv had received one of his pop-knots. The L.A. denizens -- Elijah, Sean Astin, John and Dom -- were there, of course, and Mac was there because he was family.

So there was dancing and catered food and sheaves of snapshots and screaming and Viggo kept lapsing into a British accent unconsciously and getting teased unmercifully when he did. Sean and Henry ganged up on John to play chess, with Dom suggesting naughty, naughty alternate moves for the bishops and knights, and trying to convince Ian‘s boyfriend, Taylor, that they were the real rules.

Later Liv bet Orli that Elijah could not remember the exact location of each of the Fellowship’s tattoos, and the penalty for Elijah failing to guess correctly was going to be either three vodka shots for each wrong guess, or the deposit of three kisses on each tattoo location. But they kept arguing about the penalty instead of enforcing it. Pop-knots ensued.

Viggo and Sean were refilling their plates in the kitchen and Viggo asked Sean, “How are you,” in that way that meant he really wanted to know, if Sean wanted to tell him.

“OK, I guess. I think she asked me to go more as a bargaining position than anything else, and she was really taken aback that I gave in so quickly. She’s been hinting fairly strongly that she’s open to changing her mind.”

Viggo made some indefinable therapeutic noise that meant, keep talking.

“It was over for me a while ago, but I didn’t do anything to fix it. And when she asked me to leave, well, I did. No bargaining. Cowardly, huh?”

Viggo sighed and regarded him. His hair was short, his clothing absentminded. “There is no graceful way to get divorced. And there is usually plenty of blame to go around.”

“Not this one, man. I think the blame is all on my side with this one.”

Viggo gently stabbed a tiny plastic hors d’oeuvre sword clear through Sean’s empty styrofoam plate, added some more guacamole to his own plate and wandered back into the living room.

They found Elijah in an impassioned defense of why he would, too, kiss Liv’s tattoo, if she had one. Viggo decided calligraphy was the solution, and took a purple Sharpie from Elijah’s office so that he could draw Liv her own “nine” tattoo. There was quite a long and entertaining argument over where it should go, and Viggo had to arm-wrestle her husband at one point over some obscure Arnorean law he had just made up about how he was, too, really married to Liv already. The ink tattoo ended up carefully curled on Liv’s hip, and Elijah did kiss it. Then Liv kissed Elijah’s tattoo.

Henry and John were still playing chess. There was more dancing and a messy game involving grapes. Dom and Sean and Viggo had a long conversation with Billy on the speaker phone and reorganized Elijah’s office. Henry took a nap.

Later, Orli proposed a Worst Haircut contest. He had settled on medium length curls after Troy and the second Pirates movie, and everyone liked it but pretended not to. John threatened to get scissors and give Viggo a new haircut so that Viggo could win. Ian stood up and brandished his collins glass toward Elijah.

“Haircuts is a ridiculous contest. I propose an alternative. The Worst-Dressed Queer Award goes to ...” He wrapped one arm around Elijah’s neck and one around Orli’s. “I can’t decide. It might be a tie.”

“No, no,” Dom shouted from the couch, where he was lying with his head in Liv’s husband’s lap. “Elijah gets the worst jeans award, and Orli the worst shirt.”

“Now, Dom -- Viggo has worse jeans than I do.”

“Yeah -- an’ he’s just mourning his lost youth and the sixties. So what‘s your excuse?”

Viggo stood up and turned around, modeling his jeans. Several people threw shrimp at him and several others started singing “I‘m Too Sexy for My Jeans,” clashing madly with the Charlie Hayden on the stereo. All were in agreement that it was a tie between him and Elijah for worst jeans. The argument about what to do for a tie-breaker became so naughty that Dom put his hands over Henry’s ears, shouting empty threats. Sean escalated the threats.

Then he opined, waving his beer bottle for emphasis, “Viggo may have a lost youth to mourn, but that doesn’t explain the other two. Hell, they’re just dressing down to obscure their gorgeousness. If I looked like that, I wouldn’t have to dress up.”

Ian hauled him to his feet. “It’s really not fair, since you’re straight, but we two can share the Most Excessively Dapper Award with Taylor, am I right?”

“Yeah, well, Elijah keeps giving me fashion tips and I keep ignoring him. Ian, you’re leading.”

“So sorry. Old habits.”

Viggo cut in. “Sean,” he announced when he had Sean firmly involved in an infectious swing step, “you are that gorgeous.”

“Now you’re leading.”

“And you’re letting me,” Viggo said, putting him through a very professional Gene Kelly-type spin.

Only Orli noticed how Elijah watched Viggo and Sean dancing to the irresistible classic jazz, oblivious to the crushed corn chips and dismembered shrimp that they were grinding into the carpet. Elijah’s eyes softened and one side of his mouth tried to smile. Then he cut in. The dancing suddenly got much more affectionate, but they still argued over who was leading. They were good. People cheered. People joined in.

Liv and her husband had left for another party, after reviewing the rules about no photos of her tattoo, if she was really going to be one of the guys now. Ian and Taylor had left, Mac had gone home. Dom was offering rude alternate rhymes as Viggo listened to Henry reading Pablo Neruda in Spanish from a book of Elijah’s they had found in the office. Viggo had sent him the book a while back. It had the poems in English and Spanish on facing pages. Sean was lying on the couch, listening.

Orli found Elijah rummaging for the last beers in the back of the refrigerator. He pulled a kitchen chair toward the fridge and sat down, and took hold of Elijah’s hips, pulling him back into his lap and taking one of the beer bottles. Orli twisted the cap off, drank. With a quick, small movement, he launched the bottlecap across the kitchen, directly into the trash can. Nothing but net.

“You really are still Frodo and Sam, you know.”

“Orli, nothing has happened.”

“You mean, nothing has happened yet. It’s this divorce, aye?”

Elijah leaned against him and Orli stroked his hair. The music had changed and they could hear Viggo and Henry and Sean belting out “Seeing Things for the First Time” along with the Black Crowes. Orli and Elijah’s friendship had survived a certain amount of New Zealand shagging and Elijah was glad of it. There was no denying that he had willingly, mindlessly abandoned himself to the guilt-free comfort Orli had offered him during Christine’s visits to New Zealand. Elijah had never talked about Sean to Orli. Apparently it was all clear as day to Orli anyway. Elijah realized that Sean might not know about him and Orli, and wondered if it would matter. He realized that it wouldn’t.

Elijah said, “She’s having second thoughts. He’s not. This part is really hard. It‘s slowing down all the negotiations.”

“You’ll work it out. I’ve never seen two people who belonged together more.”

“How do you know these things?”

Orli just smiled and kissed him on the cheek. They sat there until Henry came in the kitchen looking for something to drink.

***

Despite the extra people the cleaning service had called in, Elijah found shrimp skeletons and squashed grapes in odd places for weeks. He was talking to Orli on his cell phone on a Friday evening, nervously smashing a shrimp tail between his fingers. He had accidentally tuned in to a channel that was showing a celebrity sports program, and it was Orli doing all kinds of stunts that they had tried years ago in New Zealand, like sky diving. Elijah had called Orli in London, waking him up, to razz him about it.

“Why not, mate? You risked certain death for free while we were in New Zealand so I think it makes perfect sense to try to get yourself killed for pay!”

The house phone rang and he quickly hung up with Orli to answer it.

“Hey. I’m on my way.” It was Sean.

“I’ll tell the guard.”

That was the entire conversation. Elijah paced. He did think of one thing, though. He loaded up the coffee maker and set its timer for 7 a.m. It made him feel quite silly and out of character. Then he paced some more until he heard the muted rumble of the garage door and Sean’s step in the kitchen.

A different suit, this time, ultraconservative navy, and a loosened maroon tie and a big manila envelope in one hand.

“You look the very model of a modern Log Cabin Republican,” Elijah said after two kisses.

Sean snorted. He pulled away from Elijah and opened the manila envelope. Inside was a thick sheaf of legal sized paper. It had a round red stamp at the top. He let the envelope flutter to the floor, held up the divorce decree in both hands in front of Elijah and then turned on his heel and tossed it on the coffee table.

Before he could turn around Elijah had wrapped his arms around Sean again, his face in Sean’s neck, then one of his legs went up and around. They clung together, soon forced to loosen their arms because they were having trouble breathing. Somehow they slouched onto the couch. Sean was so tense. He held Elijah tightly while he talked.

“I’m so late because after the hearing was over, she wanted to talk to me again. We’ve talked and talked but she had to go over it all again. We sat in her car in the courthouse parking lot forever. Elijah, it was awful. She cried and wanted to take it all back and said she knew I had never given her a good reason for why I didn’t love her any more, and we had to talk about what this will do to the girls, and she has so much guilt now about that -- probably more than I do -- because it was her idea to tell me to move out. She’s blaming me, blaming herself, she feels like she brought all this on but that it careened out of control and she can’t figure out why,” Sean’s voice broke, then steadied, “why I didn’t help her out of it. Why I let it come to this.”

“Oh, Sean.”

“Then it got dark and I made her get some food at drive-through and made her eat it and we got my car and I followed her home. The girls are with her mother.”

“Then you drove around some more.”

“Yes. I was trying to calm down but I don’t think it did much good. I went out to the pier and listened to the ocean for a while.” Sean sighed, his grip still tight.

After a while he said, “It would have been 15 years in June.”

Elijah held him, Elijah gently pulled his head down onto Elijah’s shoulder and hugged him and petted him and finally Sean began to cry. They sat there for a long time after he was done. Elijah felt empty; no sense of victory or vindication or anything. Empty and sad.

“Let’s go to bed, baby,” he said.

***  
He woke up in the morning glued to Sean’s back. Before he even opened his eyes, he was awash in amazement and gratitude. His forehead was against Sean’s neck, one arm tight around his ribcage, the other folded behind Sean’s shoulder blade. He could feel Sean breathing under his arm, against his own chest. Their boxers were ironed together, their legs tangled. He wondered that he could hold on that tight in his sleep. It was shocking in its heat and comfort and very soon it would make him incredibly hard. In fact that was happening now; he was starting to swell and press against the firm cleft of Sean’s ass. Yet, Elijah thought he could lie there forever, molded to Sean’s skin, smelling the sweet warmth of Sean’s neck, hearing him breathe with a little catch that threatened to turn into a snore, watching the light move across his brown-red hair and kindle it to gold.

It was the first night they had spent together, if you didn’t count random drunken crashings on couches and floors in New Zealand. They had stumbled to bed, stripped down, collapsed. Sean was as drained as Elijah had ever seen him and fell asleep like a rock falling down a well. Elijah was fuzzy with sudden relief and had no trouble sleeping, either. It had been a long afternoon and a longer evening, waiting, wondering what was keeping Sean. It was so fucking good to just lie down together.

He heard Sean’s breathing change and knew he was awake. Sean rolled over within Elijah’s arms, crushed him close and kissed him without ever opening his eyes. It was a searching, claiming kiss -- a kiss that was most definitely announcing the beginning of something. They pressed together, all skin and yeasty breath and hard-on.

“Love you,” Sean murmured.

“Baby.”

Elijah found himself pondering, though the greater part of his brain was watching the sunlight grow brighter on Sean’s lips, on his neck, on the jawline with its faint glitter of overnight stubble. He traced Sean’s bottom lip with his finger. Elijah had given a lot of thought to what he wanted to do when this morning finally arrived. He wanted to laugh, because somehow he had known it would be their time at waking, not at night. Not the night before, but the morning after.

“Do I smell coffee?” Sean was saying, quite amazed.

“Don’t move,” Elijah said. He tore himself away and got out of bed.

He came back with two full mugs in his fists and a bottle of Kahlua, the dark brown glass chilly under his arm. He poured the liqueur into his own coffee, but Sean declined it. Sean leaned on his elbow and drank black hot coffee in Elijah’s bed, the covers rumpling around his slim waist, all his hard work with the weights gently illuminated by the sun, and Elijah stood there and looked at him, feeling sure he would explode or catch fire any second. It was hard to breathe. The coffee burned his mouth.

“You’re awfully far away, Elwood,” Sean said softly.

Instead of getting back in bed, Elijah held out his hand and Sean, looking puzzled, took it and let himself be pulled up.

Elijah led him into the master bath. Its main feature was the jacuzzi tub, and next to it, a double-sized shower enclosure made of clear glass bricks, with two shower heads and vertical lines of pipe that would send jets straight out of the walls.

Elijah stepped out of his boxers, into the shower, and turned on the water. The shower had a tiled bench, and high shelves that were convenient for the coffee mugs. Elijah remembered thinking to himself, _Only in California,_ when he had first seen the shower. Now it was looking like a damn good idea instead of an over-the-top extravagance.

The water was hot and Sean was inside the shower, too. Elijah gently pushed him down on the bench and adjusted the water out of his face. He soaped up his hands and started washing Sean’s shoulders, rubbing firmly, pushing out the tension. He was aware that he was so hard he was aching.

Sean didn’t let him get very far before he gently wrapped an arm around his waist and scooted Elijah around to stand in front of him. Elijah worked on Sean’s shoulders from the front, the hot water pounding his own shoulders. Sean nuzzled at his nipples, at his navel, his eyes closed. Sean’s hands caressed the backs of his thighs, his cheeks, the curve of his lower back, and Elijah got dizzy and had to lean on Sean’s shoulders, his soapy hands slipping. He raised them over his head and reached them back to rinse off the soap, and Sean went with it, easing himself off the bench as he felt Elijah’s balance shift back, gently pushing Elijah against the bricks as he knelt before him.

Elijah wanted to watch, but his eyes closed and his head sank back of its own accord. Wet, hot, the water pulsing against his spine, Sean’s mouth pulsing on him. He was moaning along with Sean, in waves, like singing, like the surf. His slick, rinsed hand found Sean’s cheek, and if he couldn’t make his eyes open, he could touch. And his other hand found the railing that the architect so thoughtfully had provided.

Pouring water and pounding blood. “Sean,” shouted over and over, to the rhythm set by sharp hipbones and soft mouth.

Instead of comforting darkness behind his eyelids, there was bright amber, like a New Zealand sunset, like Sean’s eyes. An afterimage like a photoflash was all he had left of the climax, and then the pounding of his blood sweetly ebbed and he could breathe again. Sean was standing up and pulling him close. The water washed down them and over them and Elijah was limp. He molded himself against Sean again, and thought that his heart would break with joy.

Pretty soon they were on the bench again, drinking coffee and drowning in eyes, blue and green and gold. Sean’s thighs interlocked with his. Telepathic, echoing silence.

Washing, and drying, and skin. Back in bed, then, and every position that they found simply had to have eye contact. Not negotiable. The eyes are the window of the soul, Elijah driftingly thought at one point, forgetting who wrote that, and that morning they proved it to their satisfaction, then verified the proof. Sean could laugh later that it was a fairly complete initiation, and it was true that they did everything. Everything. Sean kidded him that they had ticked right down the complete checklist of male ecstasy. And stopped for some toaster waffles and tomato juice and then did it all again. Without hurry. Without fear.

Hours later, half asleep, Elijah listened to Sean’s heart thump along heavily and quietly mere millimeters from his ear, just under the flimsy veil of flesh and bone. And Elijah knew that their bodies were simply blissfully following along, last to join the party. A crowd of movie people had seen part of this once, on a mountain that had been renamed Mount Doom. And only the universe knew what other places had witnessed this love. Because it was a familiar place to Elijah. They had been here before. They had always been here, together.


End file.
